


Nothing Wild

by ink_magpie



Series: Daisies for the Queen of the Dead [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 19th Century, American Old West, Attempted Seduction, Cowboys & Cowgirls, F/M, Frontier, Older Man/Younger Woman, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rating: M, Strip Poker, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wild West
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 19:43:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17587175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ink_magpie/pseuds/ink_magpie
Summary: The Calhoon Gang play poker with their takings from a bank robbery.





	Nothing Wild

**Author's Note:**

> ...I feel like there's definitely a follow up to this one. I feel bloody awful leaving it hanging there, but it's already long enough and I wasn't sure how to uh... polish it off. We'll see. There *might* be a part two.

"So, who'll play?" Clay snarled through the stick of tobacco smoldering between his teeth as he shuffled the deck of cards.

Of course, the biggest gun in the Calhoon Gang always insisted on a round of poker after a job. Bucking the tiger over a glass of whiskey and expensive tobacco was his way of riding out all that left-over adrenaline, and – more often than not – ensuring he ended up with a bigger share of the cache. He prided himself on offering everyone an equal share – no matter how big their part or role in the job – but when his outlaws brought their blood-earned dollars to the table, most of the time they ended the night sleeping in the pocket of Clay's silk waistcoat. He never cheated – one of the reasons why nobody complained, besides fearing his anger – he was just that good a hand.

Dynamite shook his head. "...Jeez, I don't think so, sir," the boy croaked. He was hunched in the corner of the bunkhouse cradling a half-drunk bottle of cheap bourbon. His fingers were black with residue from the gunpowder he'd charged into the Pine City bank vault that afternoon and shaking from the boom.

Clay chuckled and rocked back on his chair. He flicked the cards quickly between his open hands with terrifying dexterity. "...Where're your balls, boy?"

Dynamite brushed a shaky hand through his cropped black hair. "...Back in Pine City," he snapped. "...Nearly lost them to that faulty dynamite you had me blow the vault with!"

Jack and O'Hara laughed cruelly while Feng looked up from cleaning his dagger and smirked.

Clay grinned, rolling the tobacco in his teeth. "...That so?" he taunted. "...Well, pull up a chair boy; let's see if you can't win them back."

Dynamite slumped and rubbed at his forehead, slick with sweat and grime.

O'Hara – Clay's Irish Wolfhound – rolled up his filthy, blood-soaked sleeves. He'd been brought up bare-knuckle boxing in the gloomy slums of Limerick and after that Five Points in New York before Clay had convinced him his fists could earn him far more. "I'll play," he grunted, sneering at Dynamite as he made his way over to the table.

Clay nodded. "Good man."

Jack folded next, strutting over with that over-confident swagger of his. Confidence was his trump card – that and his good looks. He held tightly to the opinion that his birth had been a gift to womankind; his greatest achievement, he'd say, was when he managed to convince the King of the New Orleans antebellum that he was an English Duke with a claim to the throne and the best possible match for his only daughter. He'd bedded the girl the night before their wedding and then disappeared with half her fortune. "Why not, eh? See if I can't make my share a little bigger," he smirked.

Clay turned around in his chair. "What about you Feng? You in?"

Feng didn't reply. The Celestial continued to smooth the cloth over his dagger again and again until he could see his reflection. He was a man of few words and not because he didn't have anything to say, but because he couldn't. He'd had his tongue cut out for talking sharp to the foreman back when he'd worked on the Eastern Pacific Railroad, long before he met Clay.

Clay raised his eyebrows. "...Guess that's a no," he said with a shrug before glancing over his shoulder at Dynamite. "What'll it be Dynamite? You in or out?"

Dynamite didn't reply.

What Feng could get away with, Dynamite couldn't. Clay hated being ignored, so he picked up an empty bottle of Red Eye from the table and hurled it across the room. It shattered like a firework just shy of Dynamite's boots and the poor boy fell apart; clutching his head and curling up like a frightened child.

The gang whooped and cackled with laughter.

But there was one gang member who wasn't laughing – a gang member who'd been silently observing until now from over the pages of her book. But now – having been disturbed from her reading – she threw the book down and decided to air her lungs. "Jesus Clay! Will you leave the kid alone?" Quinn yelled, even though she and Dynamite were practically the same age. "Look at him! He's quaking like a preacher in a cat house. Y'all have enough players; just play your fucking game, alright?"

The room fell silent.

She fell back down on the bunk, resuming her reading position; curling against the pillow and tucking her feet up underneath her. But as she retreated behind the pages of her book, she was deeply aware of Clay's cold grey eyes on her. He rarely grew angry with her, and even then, it wasn't the same sort of anger as the one he unleashed on the others when they stepped out of line. But still, he frightened her. Knowing what he was capable of was enough.

Clay's lips curled. "...We need four for a decent game," he replied smoothly. "How 'bout you take the boy's place, Quinn?"

Quinn sighed. "In case you ain't noticed, I'm trying to read," she snapped, wiggling the book so the pages flapped like bird's wings.

Jack grinned. "Come on Quinn, stop batting your eyes over that thing and get in the game," he teased. "I want to see if the so-called Queen of Diamonds still has her edge..."

Not many people knew the story behind that name. They saw it on wanted posters across the Mid-West and beyond and gossiped about the southern belle turned swindler who was a dab hand at poker; wiping the gaming tables clean, seducing the wealthiest man in town and the clearing out his cash before hightailing it onto the next town. Only one knew about the road she'd been forced down before reaching those dank watering holes.

Clay held her gaze. "...One game," he promised.

Quinn rolled her green eyes. If it would get them to leave her alone then, "Fine. One game," she said as she threw down her book. She stood up and sauntered over to the table, looping her silk dressing gown along the way. "But don't y'all go boo-hooing when I win."

Clay grinned. "Atta girl," he said as she took a seat opposite him between Jack and O'Hara. He tided the deck and then placed it in front of her. "...And just so we know there's no funny business going on, the lady can deal."

Quinn raised her eyebrows at him as she snatched up the deck and began to shuffle, the same way her Ma had taught her all those years ago.

Back in Montgomery her mother's life had been a dreary carousel of church, crinolines and sweet tea and cards on the plantation porch. Such a life bored her deeply, and so she made her own entertainment. She learned how to play the other women; how to cheat them at cards and read their simple minds – stripping them of their secrets and their jewellery. She knew every scandal threatening to breach the calm waters of Montgomery society, and by doing so ruled it. While other Southern mothers taught their daughters how to stitch and dance, Alice Carrington taught her daughter how to manipulate, cheat and beguile all the while maintaining a lace and taffeta veil of innocence and frailty.

As she began to shuffle – splitting the deck then lacing it back together one side over the other like corset strings – O'Hara poured her a glass of bourbon while Clay pulled out a clipped wad of dollars from his jacket pocket and dropped it onto the table. You didn't get to be the lead member of a wanted gang without loving money just a little bit too much.

Jack bet first – two dollars for the blind – and then it was Clay's turn. All eyes set on him. He liked to command every game and always put a firm foot forward.

He took a long drag of his tobacco. "...Twenty bucks," he said, pulling two bills from his wad of notes and throwing them down.

O'Hara shrugged his lips but followed suit, chucking in a couple of crumpled bills and lint from his back pocket.

Quinn stood up and whipped open the tails of her dressing gown. She set her foot on her chair as she teased out a couple of bills from one of her garters and added them to the pot.

O'Hara's gaze darkened over the rim of his glass, and Jack wolf-whistled as he matched the bet.

Clay chuckled.

Quinn picked up the deck and began to deal. She flung five cards out to every player, then dropped the remainder of the deck in the middle, right next to the cash. "...Five card draw," she said as everyone picked up their cards. "Ace is high. Nothing wild."

They all checked their cards beneath a cloud of tobacco smoke and the murky light from the gas lamp hanging overhead, quietly sneaking glances at each other.

After four years among the willows – running over mountains, through forests and across deserts – they'd learnt how to read each other pretty well. Jack was easiest; he couldn't contain that smug smirk when he was busy buttering up some girl with his usual brand of blarney and it was the same when it came to cards. When he lied, he ran a hand through his dark curls and folded his lips.

O'Hara was a harder book to read. He retained that stone-eyed look and rarely smiled, except for when he put his gristle to good use giving a lawman a rib-roasting. But when it came to cards he always played safe; folding early and rarely up for raising the stakes. You knew O'Hara had a good hand when he survived beyond the second bet.

But Clay? Clay was damned near impossible to figure out. By his rich attire and well-manicured appearance, you'd never guess he was a Confederate veteran. He'd survived the war seemingly without a scratch and only a few silver threads through his blonde hair. But the truth was that the war had hardened him. He'd become a survivor at any cost. Deceitful and aggressive; he had the skill to suffer right through with a poor hand all the while convincing everyone else he was holding an ace.

Quinn was used to being underestimated by just about everyone other than those seated around that table. Dealer's luck; she was bleeding diamonds. A Queen, a Jack and an eight, and then the nine and the four of clubs. A lucky pick of two more diamonds and she'd be on for a flush.

She elbowed Jack to start the bidding.

"Oh, uh... check," he said, passing up the chance to open the pot.

Clay took a long drag of his tobacco. He pulled out another twenty, regarding the other players with cool detachment as he threw the notes into the pot.

After downing his drink, O'Hara matched the bet.

"Forty bucks," Quinn said, pulling another couple of bills from the hem of one stocking, then two more from the other. She added them to the growing pile of bills, earning a raised eyebrow from both Clay and Jack.

Jack matched the bet. "Fine... if anything just to see what else she's got hiding down there," he said, winking at Quinn.

She sneered at him as Clay and O'Hara matched her bet.

The time came to get rid of any unwanted cards. Quinn chose to toss the nine and four of clubs and it seemed as if luck again was on her side; she picked out two more diamonds from the deck. The seven and three of diamonds. Not enough for a straight flush, but still a flush.

Jack – clutching at straws – changed all five of his cards, whilst O'Hara changed two.

Clay however, lost just one. Was he trying to convince everyone that he had a winning hand when really all he had was garbage? When he caught Quinn's dubious gaze, he grinned at her through the smouldering stick of tobacco wedged between his teeth.

Jack groaned when his switch failed. "Fuck it. Fold," he said as he threw down his cards and chased the decision with a stiff drink.

Clay rearranged his cards. "Forty," he said, his clip of notes shrinking steadily.

O'Hara did the same. "Forty," he growled.

Quinn hummed as she narrowed her eyes at the growing pile of cash. She thought about all the things she could buy with it; a new dress, some new jewellery, a couple of new corsets. Dazzling her prey didn't come cheap.

She looked at her cards, and then across the table at Clay.

He smirked at her. Willing her to fold.

Quinn wrinkled her nose at him. "...I'll see your forty," she said, delving into her stockings for more cash, "and I'll raise you... sixty."

When Jack tried to sneak a peek at her cards, she elbowed him hard in the ribs.

Clay shrugged his lips. "...Well, well, Miss Carrington," he purred; he licked the tip of his finger and flicked through his thinning wad of money. "I'd hate to spoil a lady's fun. I'll see your sixty, and raise you... a hundred." He threw the money down without a thought, without blinking.

O'Hara slammed his cards down. "Fold," he grumped, grinding his chair back. He dragged the bottle of bourbon with him as he got up.

Clay rubbed his hand across his chin as he stared across the table at Quinn, daring her to match him.

Quinn smiled sweetly. She stood up and delved into her underwear again. She pulled out the remaining bills lingering in her stockings – a hundred for the see and an extra forty bucks – then reached down into the front of her corset for the rest. She quickly totalled up the scrunched bundle of bills. "...Ninety."

Clay narrowed his gaze as the bills were added to a pile that was growing more and more mouth-watering by the second.

Jack picked up the bills Quinn had dropped. He smirked. "Mmm. They're warm," he said, dropping them back.

Quinn swatted at him.

Clay looked at her. "...You really want to do this, Quinn?"

She glared. "You're not going to bully me out this time, Clay."

He shrugged his lips. "Fine," he said as he delved into the back pocket of his suit and pulled out a fifty. "I'll raise you another fifty," he sighed, holding her gaze.

The room fell silent.

"How's about it, Quinn? You got anymore tin 'tween those creamy thighs of yours to keep the pot boiling over?" he asked with a sneering southerly glance. "Or you through?"

When Jack muttered something along the lines of 'I've got something she can stuff between her thighs', Quinn kicked him so hard that he doubled over.

Clay smirked.

Annoyingly, she was clean out of cash. But, she did have the diamond collar round her neck; kindly given to her by some high-falutin' railroad millionaire in San Francisco who was spooney on her. She wasn't attached to it other than for the rich way it sparkled in the desert sun, so she untied it carefully. "I see your fifty, and I raise you two hundred bucks," she said, dropping the string of diamonds into the pot. It curled atop the pile like a sparkling snake.

O'Hara raised an eyebrow and Clay looked suspicious; he narrowed his eyes at her.

Quinn rolled her own impatiently. "What are y'all staring black at me for, they ain't paste," she snapped. "Worth at least two hundred and fifty."

Clay blew out a stream of smoke. He raised his eyebrows. "Well now. This is where we enter into high stakes, gentlemen," he surmised, sitting back in his chair as he pondered his next move.

Unable to resist the growing tension, Dynamite and Feng had slowly crept over to watch and now stooped over the table.

Quinn tapped her cards against her smirking lips. "...You give up Clay?"

Clay shook his head and tutted at her. "...Not by a long shot, darlin'," he replied.

He patted down the pockets of his silk suit for something, anything that might match her bet. When he came up empty, he paused for a moment, struck by an idea.

O'Hara looked at him. "...You out?" he grunted.

Clay rubbed the finely groomed fair hair along his jaw. "...What do you say we make this a little more... interesting, Quinn?" he suggested.

She fluttered her eyelashes at him and leaned an elbow on the table. "...I'm listenin'."

"Since I gone and chawed up my chip," he declared with a felicitous shrug, "And – hell, you know I'd rather be caught dead than toting IOUs – I'm going to let you name your price, Quinn."

Quinn blinked at him. "...Why, I'm honoured, Clay," she replied dramatically, hand on heart.

She tapped her lips as her eyes traversed his form thoughtfully. But it was just for show; she knew exactly what she wanted, and the thought that she might finally get her hands on it filled her with excitement.

Clay waited patiently, his grey eyes boring into her. "...So? What's it going to be?" he asked, holding his hands out.

Quinn eyed him forcefully. "...I want that ticker of yours," she said, watching the fob of Clay's beloved pocketwatch flash gold in the dull light from the pocket of his waistcoat. She narrowed her eyes spitefully, "Please."

A deathly silence shrouded the table as all eyes turned to Clay. They all knew how much that watch meant to him, and that he could never – would never – be parted from it. No one knew why, but there was a rumour that he kept a folded map which lead to some Mexican Gold hidden inside its case.

Clay glared at her. "Now... just what do you need a pocket watch for, Quinn?" he asked her as he unlinked it from his silk waistcoat and cradled it in his hand.

"Why, to tell the time, Clay?" was her doe-eyed reply.

Jack laughed loudly, which earned him a hard look from Clay.

Quinn grinned.

The truth was she didn't care for pocketwatches at all; she just wanted to see his face when she won and stole it away from him. She'd been desperate to one-up him ever since the night they'd met in that bar in Tucson, back when she was still a girl – having not quite lost the plantation airs about her. She'd sweetened him with lashes and liquor all the while trying to tease the watch from his pocket when he wasn't looking. After an hour of yammering on about the war, she finally loosened his money clip and the watch from his pocket into her purse. She was surprised when he doffed his hat and walked away from her asking for nothing, not even a kiss. It was only later when she couldn't find her purse and retired to her room to find it ransacked that she realised she'd met her match.

Clay stared at her for a long while, cradling the watch in his palm, admiring its weight for perhaps the very last time. "Fine," he eventually said as he lowered the watch into the pot by its chain. "...But, you know what, Quinn, this here's worth more than your diamonds. This pocket watch holds sentimental value to me, so I'll be requiring something equally as valuable to match it."

All eyes flashed to Quinn. What could she offer in return?

She shrugged at him. "I got a whole box of diamonds up in my vanity, Clay. You take your pick–"

Clay laughed humourlessly. "I don't want no diamonds, Quinn," he replied.

"...Then what do you want?"

"Since you got to choose your price, I reckon it's only fair that I get to choose mine," he added. "Aint that right fellas?"

O'Hara and Jack hummed in agreement.

Quinn slumped back in her seat impatiently. "...What do you want from me Clay Calhoon?" she scowled, the cards burning her fingers.

Clay's gaze darkened. "...Well, now since you're offering," he said. "I want the Queen of Diamonds in my bed for the night."

The air grew as tense as if a storm were about to break.

Quinn gazed at him for a long moment, and then laughed. He wasn't serious.

Jack whistled provocatively.

She scoffed and shook her head. "...Come on Clay, the pot's hot and ready. Quit stallin'."

Clay raised his eyebrows. "I ain't."

Quinn's heart leapt into her throat. "...You're joking."

Clay took a long drag of his tobacco before he answered. "No darlin'," he replied, his gaze firm, unwavering as it went on a lazy stroll of her body.

Dynamite fidgeted nervously.

Quinn dragged the lapels of her silk dressing gown across her chest and tied the strings tightly. "You know that's off the table, Clay," she said, eyeing him angrily. "Always has been. You promised."

On the train to Phoenix – reunited with everything he'd stolen – he'd told her, 'You're good, but you've gotten lucky til now, darlin' and they made a deal. She'd promised to join him, to bring her repertoire of skills and style to his enterprise, and he'd promised to protect her and her virtue for when she chose to return to her antebellum life back in Montgomery. If she ever chose to. The deal they'd made that day had remained iron-clad ever since. Clay had been good to her, never laid a finger on her or allowed anyone else to, but now, after all these years and out of nowhere, he wanted to change the rules? Why?

He exhaled a cloud of smoke smoothly and tapped the end of his tobacco into an empty glass tumbler. "Well, I'm proposing we put it back on the table," he announced, tapping the top of the table firmly with his finger. "...That is – of course – unless you decide to cut and run, Quinn. You take your diamonds back and fold and we'll speak no more of it."

Dynamite shook. "...Don't do it Quinn," he begged her, shaking his head.

Clay sent the boy a ferocious look that warned him to butt out, or else.

Quinn glanced between Clay and the large pot of dough in the middle of the table, the pocket watch furled elegantly on top. God, she wanted to win. Money was nice, the pocket watch would be even nicer, but beating Clay would be the nicest prize of all.

However. She narrowed her gaze, "You need to be clearer about what you're asking of me," she demanded. "Are we talking one time, or one night of many?"

Clay nodded, understanding the request. "One night," he replied with a nod.

She fell back into her chair and sighed as she chewed over such a proposition. She'd be lying if she said she'd never thought about it. Clayton Calhoon was a handsome man at first glance; eyes the colour of prairie thunder and hair the shade of straw. He liked to wear his wealth, enjoyed the looks and the privilege it afforded, but beneath the finery there was the body of a soldier. And beneath that, there was a cruel heart.

Clay smiled and shrugged. "...But hey, if the stakes are too high for you Quinn no one here'll think the less of you if you fold," he drawled sweetly, playing with the cards in his hand.

Quinn scowled at him. It didn't matter what everyone else thought, she'd think less of herself if she folded. Besides, Clay was desperate to see her give in. The lazy smirk he was sporting said that he'd enjoy that even more than winning. Maybe that was it. Maybe this 'one night' thing was nothing but a dare. His twisted way of calling her bluff.

Jack growled impatiently. "...Well?"

While everyone else around the table was growing more and more fed up with the stalling, Clay sat there patiently, brushing his fingers across his lips.

Quinn looked at her hand and sighed. She hadn't had this good a hand in a long time. But was she willing to put her own body on the line for it, and with it the life she'd put on hold?

Yes, she decided. If only to see Clay's face when she stripped him of his beloved watch.

She reached down between her legs and undid one of her garters – the one that wasn't hoisting her pistol – and the ochre satin ribbon unravelled in her hand. She dropped it on top of the pocket watch with an unsettling sense of dread curling in her stomach.

She looked at Clay. "Call," she demanded.

He tilted his head. "Oh no... Ladies first," he said, with a genial wave of his hand.

Quinn licked her lips as she let out a long breath and fanned her cards out on the table, face up. "Flush."

Clay tucked his tongue into his cheek as he stared at the cards.

Quinn sighed as everyone clapped and tapped the table in applause. Even Dynamite was reassured. "...Whoa," he said. "You're real good Quinn."

Clay's eyebrows bounced. "Very nice Quinn. Very nice."

"Why thank you, Clay," she replied, presumptuously reaching across the table to claim her prize.

"Now just hold on a second there, darlin'," he said suddenly as stubbed out his cigarette. "Don't you want to see what I got?"

Quinn retracted her hands. Uh oh.

She watched as he reached out and slowly plucked her garter from the pot then traded its place with his own cards. He grasped the satin tightly within his fist then held it under his nose as everyone craned over the table to see the cards.

Quinn was frozen in horror as she looked down onto his three fives and two sevens. A full house.

Clay had won.

Suddenly the cheers were for him – but he didn't cheer along, he revelled in silence, gazing intently across the table at his prize.

Quinn growled and kicked the table hard with a savage shove of her knee. Every glass and bottle on the table wobbled.

Clay straightened the bills and placed them neatly into his money clip which vanished into his pocket along with the diamond necklace. He reattached his pocket watch and tucked it into his waistcoat all the while gazing longingly at Quinn. She was still staring at the table when he pushed his chair back and walked around the table slowly. He stopped beside her chair and offered her his hand. "...Shall we?" he said, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

Jack whooped with laughter. "Time to pay up Quinn."

Quinn slapped away Clay's hand and shoved past him, making quick work of the staircase and storming to her upstairs room. She ignored the shouts and laughter at her back and slammed the door.


End file.
